


Wipe me clean with dirty hands.

by ellesmer_joe3



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: murder buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellesmer_joe3/pseuds/ellesmer_joe3
Summary: Hannibal makes an odd acquaintance when he goes to slaughter a pig and finds that someone has beat him to the pig sty. Thrice. The first two incidents, she is acting on another's orders. The third time is personal.





	Wipe me clean with dirty hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I've finally taken to watching Hannibal (the series) and I gotta say, it's really fun to write for this fandom. What does that say about my psyche?
> 
> P.S.  
> This hasn't been proofread so please forgive any spelling and grammatical errors.

1.

The meat he's chosen for dinner is a businessman working for a second-rate law firm. The man's suit is pressed and his countenance pristine, but Hannibal catches him stealing a handful from the tip bowl in the coffee shop that Alana treats him to one day. It isn't hard to catch a glimpse of his plate number as he's driving off.

Two nights later, Hannibal drives to the lawyer's home and makes quick work of picking the lock. The door swings open, revealing a long hallway at the end of which seems to be a flight of stairs. Hannibal walks toward it after making sure that all rooms in the first floor are empty. He checks for security cameras. There are none.

It is as he's climbing the second flight of stairs that his ears prick at the sounds of glass shattering and something heavy hitting the floor. Hannibal considers the possibility of his prey having an angry wife – or, at the very least, an angry bedmate – but what he finds upon rounding the corner is a sight he never anticipated.

The businessman he'd hoped to make suffer is lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. There is a hole where his right eye should be. Hannibal is sure that if he flips the body over, he will only find a mess of flesh and bone that used to be the back of the man's skull.

Hannibal glances at the shattered window and then leans down to take a closer look at the body. The bullet went clean through the eye socket, not even grazing the edges. The head is all but ruined due to the speed and force of the bullet, and therefore, the rest of the meat is as well, but Hannibal is impressed.

He crosses the room and gazes out the window, making sure to leave a wide berth between him and the frame so no one can glimpse him from the sidewalk below. The house right across the street has too low of a ceiling for anyone to have fired a shot from that angle. There are, however, more than a dozen high-rise buildings in the city.  But the city is kilometers away.

He's had his dinner stolen by a skilled shooter then.

It's not enough to make him angry, only disappointed at the prospect of having to search for replacement game.

He leaves the house without laying a finger on the body.

 

2.

It isn't until a few months later that Hannibal finds himself in yet another equally odd and unexpected situation. This time, his prey is a woman who shoves and snaps at him in the market he frequents for fresh produce. She has enough meat on her bones to make for a juicy meal and it's evident that no one will miss her. It's the first time in a long while that he thinks he may just enjoy killing someone.

Hannibal tracks down her plate number and is pleased to find that she lives in a rather isolated part of town. The next property isn't for another couple of blocks. She shares the house with no one. The lights in every room of the house are off save for one.

The moment he enters the front door, he hears a scuffle from down the hall. Unexpected, taking into account that his quarry lives alone.

Hannibal's mind flashes back to a night, months ago, in which he'd arrived at the home of his to-be-meal only to find that someone else had beaten him to the kill. It wasn't necessarily a letdown, but it wasn't his proudest moment either. Staring beadily into the darkened foyer, Hannibal feels a familiar possessiveness rise within him. If the same kind of filching of prizes is to happen here, he could no longer let the perpetrator go unpunished.

Careful to tread lightly upon the wooden floorboards, Hannibal makes his way to the source of light streaming out into the hallway. At worst he expected to find the woman's body on the floor, the back of her head exploded and glass shards littering the floor. What awaits him is something entirely different.

There is a woman in the room, but it isn't the heathen from the market. Rather, this woman is dressed similarly to Hannibal – covered head to toe in plastic – and she has the heathen in a stranglehold. Merely to maim and not to kill, from the looks of it. It's the only reason Hannibal remains silent until his quarry is unconscious on the ground.

“Good evening.”

The woman visibly jumps. No sort of weapon is on her person and she panics for a moment before she registers the identical plastic suit that he is wearing – at which time, her panic turns to confusion. Hannibal watches with amusement.

“Who are you?” she stutters.

“Someone who is very curious about why a young woman like you would be doing something like this on a Friday night.”

She frowns. “Did Fairfax send you? Didn't think I could do the job on my own?”

“I assume this Fairfax is your contractor.”

He steps further into the room. There must be something in his eyes that gives him away; her pupils dilate and she retreats to stand by the sofa with her back to the doorway leading into a separate hall. She must finally realize what kind of precarious situation she's landed herself in.

“So Fairfax didn't send you.” Her jaw clenches and unclenches several times before she manages to speak. “Are you a friend of Ms. O'Connell's?”

Hannibal's eyes flicker momentarily to the figure lying prone on the floor. His mouth twitches. “No. Far from it. In fact, I came here hoping to accomplish the very task that you were undoubtedly hired for.”

In the silence that follows, Hannibal all but hears her heart pumping wildly in her chest. He scents the faint stirrings of fear.

“I won't tell a soul,” she says. “I swear, I could care less about the lady and Fairfax just wants her strung up real good for everyone to see. I don't know why. I just really need the money.” She pauses for air. “I don't even know who you are.”

“Once the police find Ms. O'Connell's body, you will. How can I be sure that you won't tattle on to them about the man you met in a dead woman's living room?”

“Because then I'll be charged for breaking and entering and assisted murder,” she replies without missing a beat. Though her voice breaks and she looks like she will run any second. “I won't tell. I promise... Please.”

At the final word, Hannibal feels his muscles tighten with something he hasn't felt in a long time. He approaches, closes in quickly and ensures that she can't get away. She cowers from him, eyes wide and pleading, but even here she is different. The dread he smells from her isn't the kind that comes from impending doom. It is desperation. She must have something to live for. Or someone.

_I just really need the money._

“I'll keep your secret,” she whispers.

They are words Hannibal has heard before. Perhaps from a dream or a time long gone. Either way, he knows he cannot find any reason to kill this young woman. Not yet, anyway.

And she said please.

“As I shall keep yours,” he replies, baring his teeth. “Go. And whoever it is you are living for, keep them away from the news for the next two weeks. They won't like what will be broadcasted.”

 

3.

His next target is the son of a wealthy forty-something who attended one of his dinner parties months ago. Hannibal has wanted to flay him ever since they met.

The young man frequents a club in a rather seedy part of town; Hannibal plans to intercept him in the alleyway in the back, perhaps string him up and give the club's customers something to stare at in their drunken and drug-induced stupors.

It is nearly morning. Hannibal doesn't expect to find _her_ already waiting in the back, dressed darkly with a beanie pulled low over her head to hide her blond locks.

“We really must stop meeting like this,” he intones lowly, announcing his presence.

She startles, just as she did the first time they met. But no bewilderment settles on her face this time, no sense of uncertainty as to who has come across her. Perhaps she had kept her Significant Other from watching the news, but it is evident that she hadn't done the same, from the way she immediately scrambles away from him.

“You,” she gasps. “Y-you're...”

“I told you to stay away from the news.”

He takes a step closer. She flinches, but doesn't move away. Hannibal tilts his head in amused curiosity.

“What is your name?”

A frown mars her face – confusion as to why he is asking; doubt as to whether she should answer.

“Penelope,” she says.

Just then, the backdoor to the club is flung open and rattles noisily against the brick wall. A man stumbles out of the building, dragging a scantily dressed female along with him. He pushes her up against the wall and proceeds to kiss her rather artlessly. Before either of them can take notice, Hannibal leads Penelope to a more secluded location.

From behind the garbage disposal, Hannibal can feel Penelope trembling close beside him. It is not out of fear. When he glances at her from the corner of his eye, he sees she is practically brimming with fury. She is watching the scene play out before them and past the odor of rotten food, Hannibal smells the blood from where her nails have bitten into her palms.

Quietly, he asks, “Do you intend to kill him?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. He inwardly applauds her for it.

“And how do you plan on doing it?”

“Slowly. I want to make him suffer.” Her eyes are alight; despite himself, Hannibal feels a single pleasant shiver roll down his spine.

“I can help you with that.”

At this, her shoulders sag and some of her previous trepidation returns. She addresses him in a small voice: “Is he yours?”

Hannibal ponders on the question for a moment. “I am willing to share.”

Out in the open, the girl from the club is evidently more sober than she looks. “Jacob,” she whines. “Come on, Jacob. Not here.”

She pushes him away; when he leans towards her again, it's to deposit the contents of his stomach onto her dress. She screams, slaps him in frustration before stomping away. _Good,_ Hannibal thinks. He doesn't want to have to kill her as well.

“Have you come to a decision?” he asks Penelope, to which she nods her head.

“We'll share,” she says. “But I want to cut into him first.”

Hannibal offers a rare smile. “Very well.”

He does the job of knocking Jacob unconscious, carrying him to the very end of the alleyway and repositioning a dumpster so no one will see them. Penelope puts the duct tape over his mouth and they wait for Jacob to wake up.

Not long after, as she is cutting off the boy's fingers one by one, Hannibal discovers that the person she's been living for is dead – fairly recently, judging from the hellfire that practically sparks off of her when she is wielding the knife, and caused by the man who has now been reduced to sobs and groans of pain.

Once all ten fingers have been removed, Hannibal steps in. “May I?”

Penelope places the hilt of the knife into his open palm. She says nothing as he carves into what is left of Jacob, watches silently as he takes the lungs – which are perhaps the only thing that hasn't been ruined by alcohol – and stores it in the cooler that he brought with him.

She does not offer aid in decorating the body, but he doesn't mind. It's his favorite part after all and he'd rather not have the sanctity of it ruined by another pair of hands.

When he steps back to admire his work, Penelope shoves him.

The action well and truly surprises him. It would be a lie if he says that he doesn't feel anger bubble up within him upon feeling her shove him again, this time throwing the entirety of her slight frame into it. He grabs both her wrists and pins them at her sides, his grip tight enough to bruise. He can see the red light in his eyes reflected on hers, and he realizes that she is crying.

She struggles against him but she isn't pushing him away; she's pulling him closer.

He stops moving, loosens his hold on her. She must notice the red bleed out from his eyes because then she is digging her nails into his forearms. Panicked. Desperate.

“What are you doing?” she cries. “Don't stop. Come on! Hit me! Do _something_. Please.”

It doesn't work this time. He watches dispassionately as she begins hitting his chest, trying to make him budge. But he keeps a firm lid on his emotions. Soon he has to trap her against his chest, muffling her screams so that no one comes to investigate what is happening behind the dumpster. He holds her until she sags in exhaustion, and then he brings her to his car.

“You'll have to sleep in one of my guest rooms for the night, I'm afraid,” he remarks casually. “You're in no state to be going home by yourself.”

She is silent throughout the ride, staring straight ahead, catatonic. She stands by while he burns his plastic suit and the plastic sheets from the seats of his car, doesn't argue when he requests that she pull hers off so it can be disposed of as well. When they arrive at his house, evidence-free except for the demons in their heads, he carries her up to the guest room and sets her down on the bed.

He crouches in front of her, until the tense silence ultimately forces her to look at him.

“Who did you lose?” he asks in the gentle, lenient voice that he normally uses for his patients.

It is a while before she answers. “My mom.”

Hannibal nods in understanding. “It's a painful thing, to lose a parent. One of the most painful things in the world.”

“That bastard put her in the hospital and I finally got to hurt him for it, but I still don't feel better.” She almost sounds afraid. “I should, right?”

“Perhaps he isn't who you truly blame for your mother's death.”

Her eyes widen and she looks up at him, horrified. “I did all I could for her. I know I did. I... I killed for her. To pay for the operations and all the medicine...”

“You didn't kill her, Penelope. You killed the one who did. Think what you will about that, but leave it for tomorrow.” As he is speaking he disappears into the comfort room, returning with Ambien and a glass of tap water. “Drink this.”

She reluctantly does so. Hannibal smiles obligingly at her and turns to leave the room. “Rest.”

It isn't long before she is out like a light and he is free to return. He pulls up a chair and sits by the side of her bed. Watches her. Contemplates the situation. It isn't hard to see what good can come out of everything.

His lips pull back to reveal the slightest hint of teeth.

They both know what atrocities the other has done. He can string her along or, if she proves to be troublesome, he can string her up.

 

4.

That is how she finds him the next morning: slouched low on the chair at her bedside, fast asleep. He snores slightly. It reminds her that he is as human as she is, but perhaps with just a touch of something more running through his veins.

As Penelope stares at his slumbering form, she realizes that she could easily gut him where he lies and he wouldn't have the foggiest idea. In the same way, he could have done the same with her, during the night, and she wouldn't have lived to blame him for it. There is a sentiment there – something like trust but not quite.

(It is the understanding that they are birds of the same feather and that he is more than capable of molding her into what he wants her to become, but she doesn't know that yet.)

 

5.

One day, in a different continent and a different life, she asks him why he didn't kill her that night.

He kisses the side of her head and pats her arm affectionately.

“You understand me, Penelope. What a waste it would have been to butcher something so exquisite.”


End file.
